Snatch-22
by vineheart
Summary: As the corrupted wizarding world turns its back on Muggle-borns during the Second Wizarding War, Evelyn turns her back on the wizarding world and becomes a fugitive. Her pursuit of safety is compromised, however, the moment she meets Scabior. With her fate in the hands of one of the greediest and most skillful of all Snatchers, she fights for what little freedom she has left.
1. Chapter 1: The Predator

Blending in was obligatory.

She had been on the run for one month. One month since the nature of her birth was outlawed. One month since she was no longer free to traipse through the stores of Diagon Alley or enjoy a drink in the Leaky Cauldron. She was a reject of the wizarding world. Hundreds of others had been found; hundreds of others would be next. Life was no longer a pleasure; life became only her, her wand, and the painful thought that she _would_ be caught. There was no escape; capture was inevitable.

Muggle London was her safe haven. She stalked the streets bundled in flannel and wool to keep warm, her knuckles always stretched tight as she gripped the wand in her coat pocket. Her eyes had no time to focus; they darted to and fro just as quickly as the cabbie traffic on the streets of the city. She could have done many things to attempt an escape from the chase, but she chose the most accessible and least harmful: bury herself thick in the Muggle traffic of the most populous town in England and hope to be just another face in the crowd.

She had destroyed all forms of identification in her possession, every single paper that read "Muggle-born" and every trace of "Evelyn Thornwood". She was a blank slate as far as she was concerned. The girl with no identity or purpose to her name ambled from the hostel she called her home into the biting cold. She ducked into the pub she recently frequented, a place valued for its warmth and its flagrant offer of numbness.

Evelyn weaved through tables and chairs to reach the bar at the far end of the vicinity, her arms crossed tightly around herself. She pulled a stool out from under the bar and sat herself onto it, her bleary eyes downcast as she rested her arms on the wooden counter. Two fingers tapped one after the other as she waited, her eyes scanning the perimeters systematically. The bar was splattered with warm browns and dark greys in its coloring. Only a few men occupied the room, sitting at lone tables and drinking their glasses dry.

The bartender approached Evelyn with a polite, robotic smile, wiping down a bottle with a worn rag. "What can I get for you?" she asked as she clanked the bottle onto the bar and tossed aside the rag.

"A beer, please," Evelyn muttered, raising the corner of her lip for a fraction of a second in an attempt to fabricate a courteous smile. She looked down at her hands as she picked at the skin lining each fingernail.

Her heart pulsed as a gruff cockney voice spoke from behind her. " 'Ave it on me, love." The man offered a sly grin as he heaved himself onto the stool to her right. The man could only be described as handsomely dilapidated. His matted hair was pulled into a careless ponytail and his facial hair was unkempt yet cut short. He wore a battered leather jacket that hung over his distinctive faded plaid pants.

She sunk into the conversation with a level head. "Thanks," she replied, her mouth stretching into a humble grin. The bartender returned with the beverage and, as promised, the man paid for the merchandise. Evelyn grasped the pint between both hands and hunched over the sacred nectar, taking a well-earned sip. "What did I do to deserve this?" she asked the man slyly, glancing at him from the corner of her eye as she treated herself to a larger gulp.

"I live for buying beau'iful girls what they want," the man grinned, his smile as rugged as the rest of his demeanor. "Within reason, o'course," he added as he raised a finger from the bar to get the bartender's attention. "One more o'those, if you will." The conversation ceased save for the man gracelessly clearing his throat. The man and the bartender exchanged goods and the man threw back half of the beer in his glass within seconds. He wiped his mouth and turned his head to stare at her with his brash eyes.

"Now," he began coyly, "Do you want to tell me what an American witch is doing in Muggle London?"

Evelyn's breath hitched and her eyebrows furrowed. "I don't-"

"Oh don't even try that," Scabior mumbled with the wave of his hand as he took another gulp of his beer dismissively.

She released a barely audible sigh of defeat. "How could you tell?"

"Your accent gives it away, love."

Evelyn exhaled almost mimicking laughter, shaking her head. "No, about the magic."

"The tip of your wand is showing from your coat pocket, out in the open," he drawled in amusement, pointing to the evidence before his and her eyes. "Y'know, muggle shops don't do your wardrobe justice. You ought to invest in proper clothing with proper wand pockets, eh? I had to refrain from nicking it meself like a proper pickpocket when I saw you walk in like that. It's careless."

"It's too much hassle. And too many galleons," Evelyn stated plainly, keeping her breathing steady.

"What brings you 'ere, then? You been 'ere long?" he asked with the raise of an eyebrow, stroking the side of his glass with his finger pensively.

"Almost a year. I came with the intention of getting an internship at the Ministry but...well, it seems that I've come at a bad time." She took a cautious sip of beer, taking a deep breath as she swallowed.

He chuckled darkly, raising up his glass as he brought it to his mouth. "That depends on your perspective."

The silence that followed that was as thick as blood. The two drank their fill of beer, her eyes deep within the contents of her glass as his bore into the side of her head.

The man sat up straighter. "Are you registered?"

Evelyn looked up from her drink blinking fluttering blinks. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I said," he started slowly with a glimmer of malintent in his eye, "Are you registered with the Ministry?"

"Yes, of course I am," she insisted with an afterthought of forced nonchalance.

He raised an eyebrow of suspicion as he finished off the beer in his glass, never tearing his gaze from her. "What's your name, girl?"

Hair had fallen into Evelyn's face but her hands did not move to sweep it aside; she wore it as a mask to hide behind. "Samantha Blackthorn" she replied, just as she had rehearsed a thousand times, accompanied with a mischievous grin to ease the tension. "But you can call me Sam."

"Well then, Sam," replied the man with a tone far sweeter than she believed him capable, "it is _very_ nice to meet you."

As he rose his right hand for her to shake, Evelyn's breath froze and her blood stood still in her veins. Her focus narrowed onto the strip of red fabric tied taut around the bulk of the man's arm: the mark of the Snatcher. She swallowed as she took his hand in hers and gave it a firm shake, swallowing also her frantic thoughts and the panicked escape plans she had formed within the seconds that had passed. She needed to keep a level head if she were to get out with her freedom.

"The name's Scabior," he drawled, looking her up and down once with a predatory glimmer in his eye.

Evelyn's thoughts shot through her head at a mile a second. The smug silence he offered only made her panic more, but she arrived at a decision: when you're on the run, don't run-walk. So she rested her elbow down on the bar and opened her body language up to him, her eyes meeting his with an identical glimmer. She basked in his silence and matched his smug grin; she would make herself an equally matched player in his little game.

"You come around here often, Scabior?" she asked as she donned her most enticing smirk. His eyes grew skeptical but he sunk into a smirk himself.

"Not quite. Don't find meself in muggle joints too often. Don't generally 'ave the currency for it," Scabior explained without much interest.

"But you do today?" Evelyn inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"Always 'ave enough to buy a pretty girl a drink. Pleasure don't discriminate," he mused with an uncouth grin. "You interested in a bit of pleasure, beau'iful?"

Evelyn gave him a knowing look, every ounce of fear buried under the surface as her plan took its course. She knew what he was trying and she knew how to combat it. "Depends on your meaning," she lingered smugly.

Scabior's narrowed eyes traveled the length of her body and before remaining piercing into her eyes for some time. "Let's just say I know 'ow to give a girl like you a good time."

Evelyn didn't waver. "Your place?" she asked with an aura of suppressed eagerness.

Scabior smirked and stood up from his stool, satisfied with her response. "I was 'oping you'd say that."

Evelyn slid off of her stool, the sly grin plastered onto her face for fear that it would slip into a true reflection of her current emotions. "Let's go now. I'm sick of shitty muggle pubs," she insisted as she took his hand in hers and led him away from the bar. She kept her eyes glued on the door, fearful to look back at the man who could put an end to the life she fought for in an instant.

As they arrived at the door Evelyn swung around to face Scabior. "I need a bathroom break before we head out...I'll just be a second," she assured him as she released his hand and gave him the look of longing she hoped would be the last he ever received from her. Scabior gave her a nod and a wink, watching her walk down the hallway of the tavern that led to the restrooms.

Evelyn's breath picked up speed as she burst into the door of the women's restroom, unable to hold her composure the moment she knew she was in privacy. Her hands were shaking and she was hyperventilating but she willed herself to focus on a safe location for apparation. She paced back and forth, toward the stalls and toward the door and back again, as she listed off numerous possibilities in her head. Evelyn paused as a location seemed clear to her, ready to apparate at a moment's notice with her eyes fixed on the stalls ahead and her wand firm in her hand.

She heard the crack of an apparation, but it wasn't her own.

"_Petrificus totalus_,"muttered his voice from behind her. She grunted as she was struck in the back by the curse, loosing control of her tightened limbs and causing her to wobble forwards and then fall backwards, stiff as a board. Before she could hit the ground she was caught in his cruel grip, adjusting her so that he cradled her close to him; he peered down at her frozen, horrified face, forcing her to gaze up at his triumphant, crude laugh.

"Did you _really_ think that you could outwit me, love? Do you take me for a fool?" Scabior jeered as he dropped his agonizing hold and left her plummeting straight towards the tile of the bathroom floor. She hit the floor hard but no trace of her pain shown on her face; only her eyes were free to move, desperate to grapple for any means of escape.

Scabior pressed the end of his grime coated boot onto her outstretched neck as he sneered down at her helpless state. "Evelyn Thornwood...I've been tracking you for days. You, m'dear, are as daft as they come. Who the 'ell 'as the observational skills to tell a witch by the tip of her wand? You poor, dimwitted,_ delectable_ little Mudblood," he mocked as he dug his foot into her neck with more pressure.

"Your first mistake was your consistency, in case you were wondering," Scabior explained, beaming with self-righteousness. "Same pub each day. You're the only one casting spells within miles of this location, do you understand? Not 'ard to catch a fugitive if they're careless enou-"

"_Confundus_," Evelyn forced out through gritted teeth as the effects of the carelessly executed curse began to wear off. Her curse hit Scabior square in the face sending him staggering backward, befuddled. She slowly began to move her limbs again, heaving herself to sit up before he could clear his head. She waved her wand with difficulty and strained, "Stupefy!"

Scabior regained his wits in time to deflect the curse with a glowering glare and a snarled nose. He steamed as he blasted a non-verbal curse in her direction only to be deflected as she struggled to rise to her feet. He pounded her with one curse after another, each one barely deflected until he finally roared, "_Incarcerous!_"

Ropes shot out of the end of his wand and wrapped themselves taut around Evelyn's wrists. Her wand dropped to the floor with a clink. Scabior sent one rope hurtling around her mouth like a gag and another around her ankles. She lost her footing and fell onto her knees with a muffled cry. She stretched out her arms in one last attempt to regain possession of her wand but Scabior sent it flying into his own hand.

Scabior's chest rose up and down as he regained his composure. With his new prize in hand and another within grasp, he stalked over to Evelyn as his smug grin returned. He towered over her, forcing her to her feet by her hair and smirking as she squirmed. He stared her square in the eyes, basking in the fear that her stinging tears conveyed.

"Looks like you're coming with me, beau'iful."


	2. Chapter 2: The Choice

**A/N: I'm going to be on vacation for a week (visiting the Wizarding World in Orlando, ironically enough) so I won't be able to update for a while. I just got a surge of new ideas for the story, though, so never fear: there will be more to come ;) Added a character to the description for a sneak preview. **

Eighteen years of freedom had never felt so fleeting.

They had apparated. Her feet hit solid ground. Something within her fought the urge to open her eyes as if seeing where she was would equate to accepting her fate. The mere minutes she had spent in captivity weighed heavily upon her spirit and she felt limp in his grasp.

"Lemme see those gorgeous eyes, lovely," Scabior breathed within inches of her face, chuckling darkly as she flinched under his warm breath. She felt her hair fall from his grasp and onto her back again but she did not relent.

"I said," he spurred impatiently, thrusting a firm hand onto her chest and propelling her backwards into an unseen wall. She gave a sharp gasp under the biting impact. "Open your eyes or you'll never see out of 'em again."

Her eyes shot open, wide with fear yet fighting to retain defiance. He appeared content with the gesture, transferring his attention to a folded up piece of parchment he provided from his pocket. "Much better," he mumbled as he unfolded it and leaned against the wall across from her, perusing its contents.

They had apparated into a dim, cramped closet. There were shelves of empty spray bottles and used rolls of paper towels lining one wall as well as a mundane household broom leaning against a corner. The warm air was thick and musty, impairing her breathing to the same extent as the taut ropes. The lightbulb towering over them flickered in anticipation.

"Do you know where we are?" Scabior muttered, glancing up from his parchment. Gagged and dazed, Evelyn had no other choice but to shake her head.

"You and I," Scabior began as he procured a quill from his bag, flattening the parchment against the wall of the closet and beginning to jot down illegible words, "Are minutes away from an entrance to the Ministry of Magic." He finished his task with a huff, shoving the quill back into his bag. He took the parchment in both hands and stretched it tight in presentation within inches of her face. Her vision blurred as she attempted to focus on a single line of it from the proximate distance.

"Do you know what this is?" Scabior inquired, anticipating the shake of her head before she gave any sign of it. He rolled it up as arrogance overcame his entire demeanor. "This paper 'ere is your criminal sentence. Every little bit of information that says you've got dirty blood is right 'ere in front of us, ready to accompany you on your trip to the Mudblood camps. Or worse," he sneered with the return of his grimy grin.

Scabior rested his back against the wall, crossing his arms. "Y'see, I believe that you took the magic of some poor, defenseless li'le Squib. They're doin' a 'ole lot of research in the Ministry that says so. That means in my book, you're a thief. What 'ave you got to say about that?"

Evelyn shot him a glare, defenseless as she was, as she looked down at the ropes that bound and silenced her and back at his prideful face. He heaved a sigh. "Oh, alright." He rose his wand and clumsily swished it towards the gag mumbling, "Diffindo." The rope around her head was sliced, loosening its hold and falling onto her shoulders. She drank in breaths of putrid air and relieved the urge she had to swallow.

"Do you really believe that bullshit?" she spat, beads of sweat rising the surface of her face with each heave of breath.

The snatcher cocked his head to the side with an animalistic glint. "No, actually, I don't. I believe in wealth." He chortled crudely as he dug the butt of his wand into the base of her neck. "But the Ministry do, which means if I sail your sorry arse their way, _you_ will be given a criminal sentence an' _I'll_ be twenty galleons richer." The potency of his greed thickened the air.

"But," Scabior continued as trailed his wand up the ridge of her neck until it slid off her chin. He retracted his wand, his face softening as he presented a proposal: "It doesn't 'ave to be that way." He crossed his arms as his eyes bore into hers. "I'm prepared to make a deal with you"

Evelyn released a heavy sigh. "What deal?" she questioned through gritted teeth, her eyes focused onto the shabby stained carpet and the ropes that bound her hands with a clenched jaw.

Scabior basked in the prospect, tossing it around in his head before he did the honors of heaving it onto her shoulders. "Either you come with me and I make you my plaything, or you become the plaything of dementors and Death Eaters alike. Understand?" He placed two grubby fingers under her chin and raised her head to gaze at her eye to piercing eye. "As long as you give me my twenty galleons worth, that is."

"The Ministry wouldn't take kindly to harboring a _mudblood_, would they?" Evelyn noted with even breath, spitting the word to relinquish the difficulty of saying it.

Scabior laughed audibly, dropping his fingers from her chin as he sunk back against the wall behind him. "Do you know what I did before all this Snatcher business came about?" He craned his head forward forward to emphasize each word. "I was a _smuggler_. You know what that means?"

"You smuggled shit. I'm not an idiot," Evelyn mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

Scabior pushed himself off of the wall, propelling himself forward within an uncomfortable proximity of her. He placed a firm hand onto her shoulder and pinned her tight against the wall as he towered over her. He squeezed his thumb harder into her shoulder until he yielded the desired expression of discomfort from her.

"'Ey now, love, let's not get scrappy. Wouldn't want to my temper to rise if I was you. I 'aven't 'ad a good Cruciatus in far too long," he taunted as he peered down at her with bared teeth. He leaned into his grasp and stooped his head down so that their noses almost touched. "It _means_ I transported dark artifacts right under the Ministry's nose...and now I work for 'em." His breath billowed onto her face with each word. "Now, if you don't think I can 'ide a worthless, inferior piece of filthy decent from that blasted institution then you're barkin' mad."

He backed himself away from Evelyn, satisfied by the silence that signified her withdrawal. "I 'ear the Cruciatus Curse is an 'ousehold curse in the Mudblood camps. It'd be a shame to have your pretty face contorted in pain for years to come. Or until they finish you o-"

"Deal," Evelyn breathed, her face fallen and her eyes downcast. She did not lift them to see his triumphant grin nor his eager eyes.

"Well, then," Scabior drawled, donning a sinister smirk as he seized her arm and adjusted his stance for apparation, "Welcome to your new life, lovely."


End file.
